The Widow's Husband

by William Coleman

  “This is really good,” she said. “And you’re telling me that wasn’t awkward?”

  “That was Lilly,” he said. “She’s always like that.”

  “You don’t think it bothered her to see me when she came out here?” Sarah said. “After not telling her I was here?”

  “I didn’t know you were here,” Dave said, defensively. “And there’s nothing going on between us. So, why should it be awkward?”

  “What if there were something?”

  “What?”

  “What if there was something between us?” Sarah asked. “Would you still bring me here? And do you think they would still be okay with it?”

  “Hypothetically?”

  “Hypothetically.”

  “I doubt I would bring you here on a real date,” Dave said. “Or anyone for that matter. I don’t know how they would be. Truth is, I don’t know that I could handle it. I see them and I think about Shelly. Can’t help wondering what went wrong and what I could have done to change it. I wonder how things would be if we were still together.”

  “Which is why you don’t come back very often?”

  “Exactly.”

  Sarah nodded turning her attention to her meal. They made small talk while eating discussing things any strangers might discuss. It wasn’t until the meal was winding down they began to have a more direct conversation.

  “Have you learned anything new about Allan’s death?” Sarah asked. Her left hand rose to her cheek sweeping away a strand of hair and depositing it neatly behind her ear. She shifted in her seat. “Getting any closer to finding his killer?”

  “You know I can’t discuss the case with you,” Dave said.

  “I’m not asking for details,” she said. “Just if you’ve made any progress. If that’s inappropriate, consider the question withdrawn.”

  “No,” Dave said. “I understand. Yes we’ve made some progress. Have some clues and a couple leads. We hope to tie everything up pretty soon. When we do, you’ll be one of the first to hear.”

  “I appreciate that,” she smiled. “It’s so hard not knowing.”

  “Let’s just say we could actually make an arrest soon.”

  “Really?” Sarah was amazed. She expected the case to go unsolved, maybe even be featured on one of those unsolved case shows some day. She never dreamed someone would be arrested. “Who?”

  Dave grinned. “You’re nothing if not persistent. You know I can’t tell you.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just not used to all the rules. I’ve never had a conversation with a cop before.”

  “It’s okay,” Dave said. “I suppose I could tell you a little. We have a suspect. We found some prints we think will link him to your husband. We think we can establish motive. And he had opportunity. He was staying at your husband’s cabin.”

  Sarah swallowed hard. “He was at the cabin?”

  “Yes,” Dave said. “We figured your husband surprised him or something. We also think he is the same man who has been harassing you by claiming to be your husband. He made the same claim to us.”

  “He did?” Sarah’s eyes focused on the far wall as the words he told her sank in.

  “Yea,” Dave said. “We’re just waiting on the results from the print analysis. If there’s a match we take him in.”

  “That’s good,” she said flatly.

  The rest of the meal passed with light conversation. They paid their checks and walked out of the restaurant together and spent another half-hour talking in the parking lot. They said their good-byes and Dave leaned over, kissing her on the cheek without thinking. He pulled away with a stricken look.

  “I am so sorry,” he said.

  “Don’t be,” she said. She climbed into her car smiling. The engine roared to life and she drove away watching the detective in her rearview mirror. He stood next to his car watching her until she was out of sight. When she couldn’t see him anymore, she looked at herself in the mirror. She was still smiling. She was sure she would soon be having interesting dreams.

  Chapter 41

  (The Lawyer)

  The waiting room at the law offices of Bradley, Hunter and Finch was very distinguished. Dark mahogany covered the walls with shiny brass light fixtures. The maroon leather sofa and chairs were so soft Allan and Henry sank into them. An ornate Oriental rug covered a large portion of floor under a mahogany glass-top coffee table. The plants were real. The breasts on the receptionist were not. At least that was what Henry told Allan.

  Benjamin Hunter had been Henry’s lawyer for years and agreed to meet with the two men to discuss Allan’s problem. The appointment was scheduled for two o’clock. It was now two-fifteen. Allan was getting fidgety. Henry was getting sleepy. And the receptionist was busy pretending not to notice them.

  The phone on her desk buzzed and she lifted the receiver to her ear. She listened intently and answered with one-word responses the men could not hear. She hung up the phone and turned back to her computer where she was typing important looking documents. Allan looked at her expectantly for a while, turned back to Henry who only shrugged.

  “He’ll see you now,” the receptionist finally announced.

  The two men stood, stretched and walked down a hall to a large door. Henry opened the door and held it for Allan to enter. He followed close behind.

  The interior office looked much like the waiting room with the exception of the books. Bookcases filled with large leather-bound legal books walled in Hunter’s office. Volumes of casebooks were stacked in the corners. Others lay open on a large table that ran parallel to one wall. A tall thin man with jet black hair and thick bushy eyebrows stood behind the table looking at the men over the lenses of bifocals resting on the end of his nose.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen,” he said in a soothing voice. He pointed at two chairs in front of his massive desk. “I’ll be right there.”

  They sat in two wing-backed leather chairs facing the cherry wood desk. In stark contrast to the table, the desk was clear of clutter. While they were still getting comfortable the tall lawyer sat behind the desk and looked at them.

  “Henry,” he greeted. “How have you been?”

  “Good as always,” Henry said.

  “And this must be Mr. . .” the man paused. “Is it Bolder or Tuttle?”

  “Tuttle.”

  “Well, then,” the lawyer extended a hand across his desk. “Mr. Tuttle, I am Benjamin Hunter. You can call me Ben. Only my mother calls me Benjamin.”

  Allan shook the offered hand. The lawyer’s hand was thin and bony, his grip firm. Allan squeezed back a little harder than he normally would. He sat back feeling inadequate and unworthy. He wasn’t sure why.

  “Henry explained your situation to me, Mr. Tuttle,” Ben said. “I agreed to see you because it tickled my curiosity. I must admit I have not practiced criminal law in years. So, I may not be the man to help you. Although I can put you in touch with someone who probably could.”

  “I think you can help,” Henry interjected. “If he goes to trial for murder, we may need someone else. Right now we need someone who can help him prove who he is. If he can prove he is Allan Tuttle, he can't be arrested for Allan Tuttle’s death. That's why I thought of you. You know, after that thing a few years back.”

  “That was entirely different, Henry,” Ben said. “That was a case of proving a man was not who he claimed. Proving a man is who he claims to be when his wife says he is not . . .”

  “I need help, Mr. Hunter,” Allan said.

  “Let me ask you something,” Ben said. “Do you have any family who can identify you?”

  “No,” Allan said. “I was an only child. My parents died when I was young. I was raised by my grandfather who passed away while I was in college. I have no aunts or uncles. No cousins. No one.”

  “How about college?” Ben said. “Or high school? Don’t you have any old friends who would recognize you today?”

  “I didn’t have a lot of friends,” Allan said.
“I didn’t keep in touch with anyone. I don’t know if they would recognize me and I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for anyone.”

  “Can you think of any names?” Ben asked.

  “I might come up with a couple names,” Allan said.

  Ben sat back in his chair with his hands clasped together under his chin. He studied Allan with an intense gaze that made Allan uncomfortable. Ben looked at Henry for a moment, before returning his gaze to Allan. This continued for a few minutes while the three of them sat quietly. Allan was sure he was sweating. He was about to give up and leave only to be drawn back by Ben’s voice.

  “I will look into it,” Ben said. “As a favor to Henry. Honestly there is something wrong with your story, Mr. Tuttle. A little too convenient. I’ll look, on the condition you can give me a name of someone I can look for. I have to have somewhere to go with this, Mr. Tuttle. The people who help me in cases like this are good. They are not magicians.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Allan said. He stood and shook the man’s hand again.

  “Not your best,” Ben said. “Give us a name or I don’t go forward.”

  Henry and Allan walked to the door and opened it. Almost out of the office, Allan stepped back inside. He looked at the lawyer. “I want to thank you Mr. Hunter. But you should know one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  “I don’t find anything about this convenient.” He turned and walked out.

  Ben stared after him even after the door closed. The corner of his mouth rose slightly. It was the first convincing thing the man had said. He sat back and started gathering his thoughts. How do you prove a man is who he is without witnesses, without identification? To prove a man is not who he claims means finding out who he really is. So, to prove the opposite should mean finding out who he is not. He pressed the red button on his phone and waited for the receptionist to answer.

  “Yes, Mr. Hunter?”

  “Ms. Fleming, would you please make a few calls?” he asked. “I need to know everything there is to know about a writer named Jack Bolder.”

  Chapter 42

  (The Private Eye)

  Carlton Nicks sat in his rental car with a cup of coffee and a sandwich from a local drive-thru. A camera lay in the seat next to him along with his laptop, cell phone and gun. The gun was tucked away beneath a newspaper so passers-by would not be alarmed. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite before washing it down with coffee. While he ate, his eyes remained focused on the small bungalow a few houses down from where he was parked.

  Gary Rivers called him for another job. Hearing the agent’s voice revived memories of the attractive blond wife the literary agent hired him to spy on just a year or so ago. He couldn’t imagine, after the pictures he turned in to his client, that Rivers would still be married to the woman. Secretly he was hoping the job would be a repeat. If anyone was going to be following Rivers’ wife, he wanted it to be him.

  The wife wasn’t the job. The job wasn’t even in the state. It was a woman. Bring proof her husband was dead or at least would be unable to challenge copyright claims. So far Carl had found no sign of the husband. The morgue confirmed there was an Allan Tuttle in one of the coolers. And Carl could not imagine needing more proof than that, but Rivers’ was adamant that Carl see the body. Now, Carl would do a lot of things for money. Examining corpses was not one of them. He tried to bribe the attendant at the morgue for photos only to be run out by security. He had contacts for that kind of thing at home. It was one of the reasons he didn’t like to work out of town.

  At the woman’s house, he watched her movements hoping to learn something. The problem was, for most of the day, she never left and no one stopped by. It was not until late that she backed out of her driveway. Carl, dozing from a long day of inactivity, almost missed it. Her headlights flashed in his rearview mirror bringing him around just in time to pull in behind her. Happy to be doing something other than staring at a house, he followed her erratic driving through town, taking turn after turn like she was trying to lose someone. He became intrigued and became more cautious about the distance between his car and hers. He did not want to spook her and give up on her destination, which turned out to be a small restaurant on the edge of town.

  He waited across the street nearly an hour before the woman came out of the restaurant. She stepped out onto the sidewalk followed by a tall confident looking man. He walked her out to her car, kissing her cheek before she drove away. Carl shot a half dozen pictures of the two of them and a couple more of the man on maximum zoom. Assuming the woman would return home, Carl decided to tail the man to see where he would go.

  He followed the large man to an apartment building on the north end of town. He sat across the street watching the windows to see if he might catch a light coming on or possibly a glimpse of the man. Unfortunately, he saw nothing to give away which apartment might be his. Carl walked up to the door and scanned the list of names next to the buzzers for each apartment. He wasn’t sure how it would help him. None of the names looked familiar and there was no reason they should.

  He wrote down the man’s license plate number. In the morning he would make some calls and get a name. In the meantime, he gave up on the man and returned to the woman’s house, stopping for a burger on the way.

  Surveillance, one of the most boring parts of his job, usually produced the most fruit in his line of work. Sometimes Carl would sit and watch for days before his subject would make that crucial error and let him catch them in the act. The act varied of course, from cheating on a spouse to playing an unscheduled round of golf. One client actually became enraged because Carl produced photos of her husband swinging a golf club. The client would have understood her husband wanting a younger woman. Being lied to so he could play nine holes was more than she could take.

  He sat in the car for the next few hours, waiting for all the lights in the house to go out for the night. The last light in the house finally darkened a little past midnight. Carl sat watching the house nearly two more hours, to be sure she had plenty of time to fall asleep, before opening the car door. The interior light glowed for a moment as he slid out of the vehicle and pushed the door shut as quietly as he could. The trunk light illuminated his face when he reached in to get his equipment. He hated rental cars. His own car did not have interior lights. They weren’t conducive to his line of work.

  He took audio monitoring equipment from the trunk to install a bug on the woman’s phone line. It was not legal, but he was not planning to use anything he heard in a court of law so he didn’t care. He would get all the information he needed, turn it in to Mr. Rivers. Legal or illegal, he got paid the same.

  Carl crossed the street and made his way down the sidewalk until he was even with the woman’s driveway. He looked around before strolling up the drive to the freestanding garage. He looked through the windows of the garage. Seeing nothing of interest, moved to the side of the house where the phone box was located. He used a pair of bolt cutters to remove the locking mechanism from the box. Inside, he identified the wires he needed and went to work installing the transmitter that would allow him to listen to and record her phone conversations. Finishing, he did a quick test of the receiver before closing the box again. He secured the cover with his own padlock. He would remove the lock when he removed his transmitter. Neither could be traced to him. They were just out of pocket expenses he would rather not lose.

  Hefting his bag to his shoulder, he considered returning to his car and finding a hotel for the night. He decided instead to take a look at the house before he left, get an idea of the layout for future surveillance. It would only take a few minutes and there was no better time than the middle of the night. The occupant was sleeping and no one would see him.

  He stepped cautiously, making his way along the wall of the building until he came to the first window. He straightened to his full height and peered over the windowsill into the room beyond. It was the kitchen, neat and clean, the first obvious sign there was
no man living there, although not conclusive. He scanned the counter tops. There was nothing of interest to see. Bending down he moved on.

  The next room he came to was a dining area on the back of the house. It too was spotless. There was no sign anyone spent time there. He knew even a single woman would make little mess. He wondered if after her husband’s death she spent time cleaning to take her mind off the tragedy. He had seen it happen before.

  The next window was made of the type of textured glass often used in bathroom windows. They were very handy for keeping nosey neighbors from watching you take showers and such. They were very disappointing to someone like Carl who made his living looking through windows. He moved on quickly.

  Next was a bedroom being used as an office. A desk stood in the center of the room facing the door. Behind the desk to one side was a bulletin board covered with note cards pinned at their corners. On the other wall were stacks of books, mostly reference volumes. There was a typewriter on the desk and Carl realized he had not seen one in years.

  He walked to the next window and peered into another bedroom. This was an actual bedroom featuring a queen size bed with heavy posts. The room was as neat and clean as every other room he had seen. It gave the impression no one lived in the house. There were no clothes on the floor. There was no watch or bracelet on the dresser. He couldn’t see the woman’s shoes lying around. The bed was made without even a wrinkle.

  The bed was made. The woman came home nearly three hours ago. The lights were all turned off more than two hours ago. She should be asleep in her bed. The bed should not be made. Carl’s eyes darted back and forth searching the darkness for a human form. There was nothing to see in the dimly lit room.

  She could be in the bathroom he supposed. She might even have fallen asleep on top of the blanket and awakened only recently. If that were the case, the bed would have an imprint on one side or the other. There was no such imprint. She might have sat down in the living room and fallen asleep in a chair. He ducked down again and moved toward the front of the house where the largest window was located.